Honeymoon Night (Of the Living Dead)
by ladyofthewoo
Summary: [CONTAINS SPOILERS] Following the events from the ending of the 2016 movie, our heroes must face the swarm of zombies that have interrupted their wedding. A short story of Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's wedding night.


They stood in front of the ivy-covered gate that was to take them to their happily ever after. This walk through it was to be their first steps as husband and wife; their first walk into the future.

But as the—now—Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy stared in horror at the swarm of zombies rushing down the hills and over the meadows towards the church, she could not help but wonder if this would, instead, be their last.

Petals of pink and crimson flowers fell through the sky like a surreal memory of a dream. The cheers and shouts of joy from the crowd were quickly turning into screams of terror. The mumbling, muffled groans emanating from the horde of unmentionables could be heard rushing toward them like a lonely wind.

The grip on her arm tightened, and she turned her face towards Mr. Darcy—her husband of about five minutes. His dark eyes observed the undead throng with a piercing gaze; his expression that of cold, calculating determination. She could see the muscles in his jaw clench.

"Wickham," he growled under his breath.

Tearing her gaze away from his face, she could now see that the zombies were in fact being led. None other than George Wickham was galloping on horseback, like the devil himself, at the front of the swarm. In place of his severed arm, was a sharp, crude weapon and he was screaming at the top of his lungs.

Their wedding party was fleeing towards the agitated horses and carriages. No doubt they hoped to flee to the sanctuary of Rosings Park. The estate was only a short mile away from Collin's parish, and was widely regarded as the safest place in England. However, Elizabeth could tell that most would never make it in time.

"Bingley," rasped Darcy's voice, as he turned to his friend. "Take your wife to Rosings. And go quickly!"

"What about you?!" cried Charles Bingley, taking his newly-wed wife, Jane, by the waist.

"We'll hold them off," replied Darcy. He turned his head towards Elizabeth; a slight questioning look upon his face. "Right?"

Elizabeth smiled at him.

"Of course," she said with a stubborn lift of her chin.

Darcy flashed her a shy, small smile. Within that smile was something she had once believed to be a fault, but now felt was a virtue of the highest caliber.

It was pride.

* * *

Fitzwilliam Darcy stared at his beautiful, brave, and buxom wife. In her bridal-white attire, staring down a viable army of zombies, she looked like the very angel of death. Pulling back her skirts, she revealed her pair of trusted Chinese butterfly-knives strapped to her thigh. Darcy tried his very best not to look too long upon the creamy skin of her legs. He needed to focus.

Brandishing his katana and pistol, he ran towards the gate at full speed. Shutting and locking it quickly, he took aim and fired upon the ivy-covered metal.

Like most of England's churches, the iron gates of Mr. Collin's parish was lined and filled with oil. This was a basic form of zombie defense. The spark of the gun caused the gate and fence to burst into towering flames, just as the undead began their assault.

The unmentionables were ablaze as soon as they pressed their rotting bodies against the fences. The sound of horses bellowing and the screams of flaming dead pierced Darcy's ears. With swift and clean strokes, he sliced his sword across the necks of those undead that still attempted to climb the burning gate.

In the midst of the grunts and screams of the horde, he could make out the whistling of Elizabeth's knives cutting alongside him. It was an invigorating sensation, knowing that such a woman was fighting with him. He began to cut with more fervor, losing himself to the fight and the seductive song of Elizabeth's knives.

All too soon, however, a cry cut through the air.

"TEAR IT DOWN!"

It was Wickham's voice. He could recognize it anywhere, no matter how altered he became.

The swarm of undead began to push against the metal. Flame or no, the sheer weight of the horde began to bend the iron.

"Elizabeth!" Darcy barked out. "To the church!"

Mid-cut in an elder zombie's head, Elizabeth whirled his direction. Perspiration falling down her face and neck, she flushed in the light of the fire. Grabbing her skirts, she ran, obediently, towards the heavy doors of the church. Darcy's eyes were stinging as he ran after her. The rancid smoke of the burning dead flesh seemed to be following him. As he caught up to his wife, he grabbed her arm, as if he could pull her into running faster.

A groan and a snap got his attention. The fences had fallen. A cry erupted from the mass of undead, and Darcy could feel his heart pounding with adrenaline.

They were inside the church within a moment, and pushing with all their strength to close the heavy doors within the next. Darcy sprinted towards the thick block of wood that was meant to serve as a lock. Elizabeth followed, and the two used the last of their strength to put it in place. With a loud smack, the block fell into its hold, just as the zombies slammed their bodies against the church door.

The high windows shattered as corpse-like fingers and arms began to grope through. However, the windows were too high up to be reached properly, and they were lined with thick, metal grates. They were safe it seemed, for now.

Darcy sighed and wiped his brow of sweat. He leaned his back heavily against the door and sank to the ground.

"Fitz!"

It was Wickham again. Darcy inhaled slowly and regained his composure.

"George?" he yelled.

"You may as well come out!" was the reply. "We can stay here all day, all night, all week if we need to—we will never tire or starve! We will live on!"

" _Live_?" Darcy replied, sarcastically. "That's a terrible stretch of the imagination."

"You cannot survive in there forever," Wickham returned, ignoring his comment. "Sooner or later you will have to come out."

Darcy made no reply. He dearly hoped that his friends had made it to Rosings and that their attempt at delaying Wickham had not been in vain. He was beginning to feel an awful sense of guilt for asking Elizabeth to get into this mess along with him. He should have let her attempt to escape with her sister—

"Wickham, you prick!" shouted Elizabeth suddenly. "I'll cut your head off —myself— when I get the chance!"

Darcy blinked at her. She was sitting on the ground beside him, her face red with fury. The steady rise and fall of her chest indicated her struggle for steady breath. He was entranced, once again, by her ferocity.

If Wickham heard her, he made no attempt to reply. The steady sounds of fire, bodies slamming against the door, and moans emitted from the undead echoed through the church.

Elizabeth sighed.

"Well then," she said, as if to herself. "Might as well get comfortable."

She settled herself on the stone floor, and removed her gown-sleeves and dress jacket. Darcy watched her with calm fascination. With decidedly feminine movements, she removed the pins from her hair, allowing her curly, dark locks to fall about her glistening face. Retrieving her butterfly-knives, she wiped them carefully on the hem of her jacket; leaving trails of red behind.

After watching for a moment longer, Darcy averted his eyes and followed suit.

* * *

The dying rays of the red sun shone through the shattered stained-glass windows, creating patterns upon the walls. Though the sounds of fire had died down considerably— the grumbling, vomiting, murmuring, and muttering of zombies continued. They had remained outside for the past four hours and gave no indication of leaving just yet.

Elizabeth barely noticed the noise of the unmentionables now. They had become as a dull hum in the background. She was sitting on a pew, fanning herself from the summer heat. Darcy, restless and agitated, had gone to check the parameters of the small rectory a couple hours prior.

They had not spoken a great deal since becoming trapped. After Elizabeth had removed her finery, Darcy had followed her lead. Removing his topcoat and cravat, he revealed the crisp whiteness of his undershirt. Elizabeth had blushed at the sight of his state of undress, but inwardly cursed her maidenly reaction. She was a warrior and a scholar. She should not be blushing at the sight of a young man's undershirt.

Furthermore, they were now married. Surely she would see more than just his undershirt by and by.

This thought caused her to blush further still. For although, yes, she _was_ a warrior and a scholar—she _was_ a maiden too. And one very little exposed to men.

The Shaolin temple she had trained at in China had been entirely female. The only male contact she had received during this time was the occasional visit from her father. It wasn't until her training was complete—at the age of seventeen—that she returned to proper English society. With the return of such society came intrigue, flirtation, scandals, gossip, and a hundred other subtle niceties she found more puzzling and difficult than any physical task she had been commanded to take on in China.

Her mother had, of course, hounded all of them for years about finding a suitable husband. Fortunately for them, gentlemen had been scarce in Meryton during those early years. The infected dead kept most away from the sparsely populated countryside. Elizabeth had been, guiltily, thankful. She didn't desire unwanted affection or misunderstandings. She had seen her elder sister, Jane, go through enough of such things. Instead, she kept to her books and training. She prized her mind and her strength over her feminine wiles. She had little interest in the pursuit of love.

That is, until she met Mr. Darcy.

Their misunderstandings had been great indeed, but in him, she had found a man who genuinely prized her peculiarities. He was an incredible warrior, a valiant leader, and someone she had come to trust completely. After he had rescued her young sister, Lydia, she knew her heart had truly been taken by him.

It was strange. She really knew so little about him. She knew so little about his past, his family, his home, his likes and dislikes. All she knew was his character and his heart. Of this, she knew she loved.

But would that be enough?

When he had proposed to her, he had kissed her thoroughly—it had been her first. It was like nothing she had ever known. It was not a friendly or chaste peck. It had been a devouring. She had lost her very breath and thought.

He had kissed her in the same sort of way at their wedding, she now realized with embarrassment. Kissing like that was surely not a polite thing to do in a church. It had taken her all of her willpower not to faint from the passion of his kiss.

And yet…

And yet, when the kiss was over, his expression was as passive and stern as ever. Like a cloud passing over the sun, she wondered if the warmth of his love ever really happened. Perhaps he did not want her as much as she previously thought. Perhaps her lack of feminine charm was a real problem…

The sound of his footsteps roused her out of her reverie. He was holding his katana in one hand, and a bottle in the other. His left arm was cut and bleeding. He walked straight to her, and sat in the pew across from her.

"What happened to your arm?" she asked, urgently.

"Nevermind that," he said. His raspy, sultry voice sounded mildly pleased. "I found the cellar and secured a bottle of wine. There is no other exit... however, there are a few windows in the priest's quarters." He gestured towards his wounded arm then, as if the existence of windows explained the bloody gash.

"There are no other exits?"

"None."

Elizabeth sighed. Darcy brought the wine bottle to his mouth, and with his teeth, yanked out its stopper. It made a faint popping sound. He removed the cork from his mouth, blinked, and then addressed her with a nearly sheepish expression.

"Pardon me, I didn't stop to find cups."

Elizabeth covered her mouth, but could not stop herself from laughing. What a strange thing to be worried about at such a time! Darcy's expression immediately began to sour, only making her laugh even harder.

"I'm glad you're taking this all so well," he said, sarcasm clipping his words.

"What's this?" she remarked between giggles. "Can't be teased, Mr. Darcy? What a shame! I dearly love to laugh."

"Is that so, _Mrs._ Darcy?" he returned, emphasizing her new name and causing her giggles to stop. She could feel a faint blush tinge her cheeks.

"Yes," she said, shyly. "That is so."

Ducking her head, she peered at him through her eyelashes. She could see that he was smiling, as if to himself. She felt a strange warmth building up within the pit of her belly. In moments like this, it was easy to realize that, although her husband's face was clearly world-weary and his emotions guarded, he was the most handsome man on God's blessed earth to her.

After taking a swig from the bottle, Darcy ripped a strip of cloth from his sleeve. Attempting to bind his wound, he sighed in frustration. The blood was making the bandage slip, and he could not get a good grip with one hand.

"Please," Elizabeth murmured softly. "Let me."

His dark-rimmed eyes followed her as she crossed the aisle to reach him and tie the bandage. She could feel his heated gaze upon her, causing her to fumble with the ties for a moment.

When she finally completed her task, she dared to look up. Their eyes met.

A loud, startling thud broke their intense trance, as a zombie been tossed against the heavy door.

"I—I should," Darcy said. "I should light some candles before it grows too dark."

"Yes, of course," Elizabeth hurriedly agreed.

He stood up abruptly. Turning towards her, he awkwardly bowed his head.

"Thank you for the bandage," he said. Then, quickly, he raced to find candles and matches.

Elizabeth grabbed the wine Darcy had left behind. Squeezing her eyes tight, she put the bottle to her lips and drank deeply.

* * *

The church seemed smaller and cozier in the light of the candles. After another thorough examination, Darcy finally seemed satisfied with his work. He had placed, and lit, as many candles as he could around the outer perimeter of the sanctuary and several lining the passageways to the cellar and priest's quarters. It was a dull task, but he needed to be able to see in case a zombie should find its way in.

He heard little giggles coming from Elizabeth, and figured that he should, probably, return to her. He cursed himself for being so self-conscious in her presence. She was his _wife_ , for God's sake. How was he be able to face an army of the undead but lose his merit when facing _her_?!

His mind drifted to the feel of her lips upon his. They had kissed in front of God and everyone they knew only a few hours ago; so sweetly, so open. He thought of how her plush, soft body pressed against his own…

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he forced himself to cease his line of thinking. This was not the time.

Striding towards Elizabeth's pew, he was startled to find her flushed and laughing. In her hand was the bottle of wine he had found in the cellar.

Her eyes lit as he approached.

"Darcy!" she cried.

Flinging her arms around his neck, he instinctively wrapped his own around her.

"E-Elizabeth?" he heard himself say, rather stupidly.

"Oh, dear," she cooed in his ear. "Please call me Lizzy. Everyone else does."

"Lizzy?" he supplied.

"Mm-hmm," she murmured.

Her body sagged against his, and he could feel the swell of her generous breasts pushing against his chest. He looked at the ceiling.

"Ah," he began in a gentle tone. "Did you… perhaps… drink all the wine?"

Pulling herself away from him, she looked up into his eyes. He hoped he didn't look as shaken as he felt.

"No," she said with a playful grin. "I saved a little for you."

"Better give it here then."

Offering him the bottle, he finished off the remaining liquid. It burned through him, but he drank it regardless.

Elizabeth was swaying from foot to foot, as though she were dancing. She smiled at him, and he wondered how strong the drink was.

"We shouldn't have done that," he said, setting the bottle in the pew. "If the undead make it in, the effects of intoxication may hinder our ability to fight."

"If they make it in," she replied, smiling drunkenly and looking far-off. "It won't matter whether we are intoxicated or not."

He blinked at her.

"Ah," was all he said. There was a weighty pause, as if both were thinking heavy thoughts.

"Darcy," she said suddenly, placing her hands on his shoulders again. "Darcy, Darcy… am I, perhaps, allowed to call you 'Fitzwilliam?' Or 'Fitz?'"

"I would rather you didn't," he admitted. "I personally hate my given name, and… only George calls me 'Fitz.'"

Elizabeth looked at him with sympathetic eyes, and caressed his cheek with an amazingly gentle touch.

"Very well, Mr. Darcy," she whispered. "What _am_ I allowed to call you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Am I allowed any endearments?"

She was teasing him now. He was slowly beginning to recognize her own brand of wit and humor. Secretly, it pleased him greatly to be acquiring this knowledge.

"I suppose," he said quietly, shyly. "You may call me, 'my dear' or 'sweetheart' or something of that nature."

She giggled.

"Oh surely nothing such as that!" she exclaimed. "I believe I could name you something better."

With a fixed look, she pushed back his dark hair till it was out of his face. She trailed his cheeks with her fingers and lingered a moment on his lips. Her sweet scrutiny was fixed upon his features. He felt as though he was burning more so than the unmentionables had upon the parish gates.

"Ah," she sighed. "You're much too wild and fearsome to be named something tame and sweet… for such dark brows and eyes I'd more likely call you 'my crow' than 'sweetheart.'"

She turned her head to one side as if to study him further. She smiled.

"I think 'darling' will have to do for the moment," she said lightly, and he felt as though his heart would explode.

"And what… uh… endearments am I allowed to give you?" he asked, rather awkwardly.

"Oh, nothing too fancy," she replied. Then, burying her face into his chest, she giggled, "How about 'goddess divine?'"

He found himself smiling, in spite of the sudden scream echoing across the room. Apparently there were a few zombies fighting amongst themselves now, and he could faintly hear Wickham trying to stop the fight.

"Well that's not fancy at all," he said sarcastically to her, making her giggle more. He found the fact that he could make her laugh as intoxicating as the wine had been.

"What should I call you when I'm cross?" he said, teasing her more. "' _Mrs. Darcy,'_ I suppose?"

Her head shot up. As seriously as her drunken body allowed her, she cried, "No!"

Puzzled, he watched as she tried to compose her meaning.

"No, no," she continued. "You should only call me 'Mrs. Darcy' when you are…" she smiled up at him, her thought lighting up her face. "When you are completely and wonderfully happy."

It was too much.

"Well then," he said, licking his bottom lip quickly and watching her eyes follow the movement of his tongue. "Will you allow me to kiss you, _Mrs. Darcy_?"

He was surprised when her response was to grab the collar of his shirt and kiss _him_.

God! The feel of her overwhelmed him. Lifting his hands, he held either side of her small, lovely face. His thumbs rubbed against the line of her jaw. He held her soft bottom lip in between his own, sucking gently. She hesitantly slid her tongue to the entrance of his mouth, which he eagerly admitted. Exploring the inside of her mouth with his tongue, he groaned softly with contentment. She tasted sweetly of wine, honey, and berries. She smelled of soap and lightly of sweat, causing some sort of primal urgency to overtake him.

When at last, they pulled apart, flushed and out of breath, he slid his hands from her face to the side of her arms. She was looking at him with a dazed, heady look in her cinnamon brown eyes.

"My dear," he whispered. "Let us sit together."

She nodded faintly. He took her by the hand and led her to the door. Leaning against the wood and sinking to the ground, he sat and stretched his legs out. To his delight, instead of sitting beside him as he assumed she would, Elizabeth settled herself in between his legs.

She lay atop of him, as though he were a sofa; her small hands against his chest and her shining eyes peering up into his. With her body flush against his, he prayed to God that she could not feel the evidence of his desire for her, as he did not know the proper decorum for such a situation and wasn't entirely sure how to conduct himself.

"Darling," she all but purred. "May I kiss you again?"

"That could be dangerous," he quickly admitted, his voice sounding more like a growl.

He caressed her face with one hand, gently. Then trailing down from her face, to her neck, he allowed his fingertips to brush the tops of her ample bosom. Her breath quickly grew shallower at his touch, and he marveled that he could have such an effect on a woman like her.

"Please," she whimpered, and he knew he was lost. Gathering her up with one arm, his other hand lightly squeezing her breast, he pulled her into another searing kiss.

* * *

The white light of dawn brought the regiment from Rosings Park. With the sounds of thunder under their hooves, the British soldiers mowed down the horde surrounding the church. Lady Catherine, in all her dark armor, was at the forefront of the attack.

After a quick skirmish, it was obvious that the unmentionables were no match for the deadly training of Lady Catherine's soldiers. Wickham ordered the swarm of zombies to retreat and regroup in Fallen London. The undead fled with surprising agility, although many were pursued and trampled down.

Charles Bingley was among those fighting. When all was finally safe, he quickly urged his horse to the front of the church. Jumping from his saddle, he pounded on the door and shouted, "Darcy! Darcy, my dear friend! Are you alright?!"

"A moment, Charles," came the disinterested, raspy-voiced reply.

Bingley nearly laughed aloud in relief. Leaning against the door, he called back, "That was quite a close one, Darcy! I was so terribly worried. I thought I would never hear your voice again!"

"Yes, well," Darcy replied in a dismissive tone, one that Bingley recognized as Darcy's embarrassment. "I'll be out in a moment. My..." Bingley heard him pause, then almost too quickly to understand he blurted, "My wife is still asleep."

Bingley smiled and tried not to laugh at his friend's bashfulness.

"Alright, my friend," Bingley said, when he was composed. "We shall be clearing the field for when you emerge."

Inside, Darcy still sat against the door. In one arm, he held his katana, hilt to the sky and blade against the ground, in a defensive gesture. With his other arm, he held the sleeping Elizabeth tightly to his chest; her soft breath caressing his neck. He hadn't been able to get any sleep because of it.

"Lizzy," he spoke into her ear. "Wake up, dear."

Her eyelashes fluttered and she attempted to wake. For a moment, he thought she would, but then mumbling to herself, she merely cuddled closer against him. A warm, shy grin lit his face as he looked at her. He tried to rouse her again, this time succeeding with his endeavor.

She looked up into his face and gave him a small smile.

"Ah," she breathed. "Good morning."

"Good morning," he replied tensely. "The zombies are gone."

"Are they?"

"Yes."

"Oh... good... that's— that's good."

She awkwardly shifted, but his hold remained tight around her.

"Darcy," she began, hesitantly. "Did... did we—?"

"No," he interrupted quickly. "No, we did not."

"Oh."

He searched her face for any indication of what she was feeling, and was surprised to find embarrassed disappointment.

"Why not?" she shyly inquired.

"Why... not?" he blinked and felt momentarily dumb. "I—I suppose I didn't want to take your maidenhood while you were drunk... in a church... surrounded by zombies."

She looked at his face and began to giggle.

"No," she said with a breathy laugh. "I suppose that isn't the most fortunate of circumstances!"

He smiled again and wrapped both arms around her, careful to keep his katana away from her back. With more gentleness than would be expected of him, he kissed her nose.

"We shall have to reschedule such an event with more suitable arrangements," she said teasingly to him. He watched her with fascination as she blushed from her own boldness. "That is... if you are not opposed."

"I'm not," he admitted, shyly. "And, believe me Lizzy, it is an appointment I look forward to, greatly."


End file.
